by David Beem
“I don’t know? Maybe a homeopathological cure for STDs?”
“’Scuse me.” A Dude with a torch brushes past Wang and lights another batch of dildos. An earsplitting crack shakes Wang’s spine, this time followed by a loud whoosh—and pain.
“Dude!” yells Shmuel, pointing.
“Holy fuck!” Consuelo slaps his hand over his mouth.
Wang turns around to see what they’re staring at, and the whoosh circles behind him.
A hot whoosh.
His hair is on fire!
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Wang slaps himself in the head. His hands spring back, burned, and a new type of whoosh blasts him from behind—cool air and powder. “Ack—ack—” He breaks off, doubling over, hacking, and his spit pocks the white powder caked over his arms and hands.
“Du-ude!”
“Holy fuck!”
Wang clenches his eyes, hacks and spits some more. Pain rakes his scalp. It’s pulsing in his ears, radiating off his neck—
“You were on fire, dude?” says Shmuel.
“Whoa… A Flock of Flaming Seagulls!” gushes Consuelo. “Your hairspray, dude!”
Wang’s eyes open. He holds his hands out. Where did the white powder come from? He wheels around—coughs—and spots a wide-eyed Dude in a dirtied-up Zegna suit holding a fire extinguisher nozzle down. “You were…you were…” The Dude drops the nozzle and makes a circular gesture over the top of his head with his finger.
Consuelo tilts his head, sticks his bottom lip out, and nods. “Nice suit.”
The Dude gives him a thumbs-up.
Another bone-rattling snap vibrates in Wang’s ears, and his burned head pulses with fresh pain. “Fuck! Dammit! Shit!”
He drags a powdered hand over his face. It comes away with spit and powder. He hacks more. Fingers close on his arm and shake. He clenches a fist, turns—and a movie camera shoves into his face.
“Whoa.” Ralph lowers the camera. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking okay?”
“You’re about to be a lot worse,” says Ralph. “Over a hundred inbound zombies.”
Wincing, Wang signals for them to move, and the four set off for the motor pool. “Are Danny and Leo ready? They understand the plan?”
“Yes. Can’t say I understand the plan, though. Them running a diversion, I get. It’s the part with the birds, the netting, and the pig that—”
“Yours is not to reason why. Yours is just to do or die!”
“Oh-ho? Listen to me, Wang, there is no universe where this guy dies for your stupid dildo-pig-bird-road-warrior schemes. You got that?” Ralph turns and signals with his finger for one of the catapult crew. “Get the drivers to their cars.”
“Hey-hey,” says Wang, wincing again, this time at his own voice vibrating painfully in his burned head. “I give orders like that. No drivers to their cars until I say!”
Ralph’s eyebrows lower.
“Somebody get me a towel!” yells Wang, raising his powdered hands, then turning his head and spitting. “And then get the drivers to their cars!”
A throaty moo yowls. A lone cow is flipping its tail and pacing near the motor pool.
“Chicowgo!” Shmuel races for the cow and throws his arms around its neck. Spy Pig lies down and releases a sigh.
“Are we under attack?” asks Christine, Consuelo’s girlfriend, coming up behind them in her fashionable jeans and T-shirt. “So help me God, Wang, if we’re under actual attack and you’ve got these brainwashed morons shooting dildos at—oh, shit. Are you okay? You look like a Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial.”
Consuelo drapes his arm over Christine’s shoulder and gives her a quick peck on the cheek.
“None of that, none of that.” Wang waves his hand and then signals with his finger for them to move. “No time! If there are hundreds of zombies out there now, we’ve got less than an hour before it’s thousands.”
Christine falls in next to Wang, followed by Spy Pig. Ralph and Consuelo fall in next, while Shmuel breaks away from Chicowgo to bring up the rear.
“Per your orders, sir,” says Christine, “Danny and Leo left for that weird pagoda thingy—”
“The Temple of Cock Block,” says Wang.
“Yeah, I’m not calling it that,” Christine replies.
“That’s what I’ve named it. That’s what everyone has to call it.”
“No. No, not even silently in my head.”
Wang grits his teeth, then winces. “Spy Pig! Herd the birds! Shmuel, you know what to do.”
Shmuel salutes and hurries off. Spy Pig raises a hoof to his forehead, then casts upturned eyes on Wang, who hurriedly nods. Spy Pig finishes his salute, then scampers after Shmuel. Christine and Ralph gape.
“And I thought dildo catapults were weird,” mutters Ralph.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Consuelo replies.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Smack!
Wang’s hand stings. He lowers it into his lap, scowls, and Christine tapes down the end of the bandage on his head.
“Oh, quit your scowling,” she says, “If you didn’t keep sticking your booger grabbers in there, I wouldn’t have to smack ’em.”
Wang’s scowl deepens. “Booger grabbers? Show some imagination—nay, show some self-respect with your insults, soldier.” He holds his hands up. “These are dick skinners.”
Christine rolls her eyes, drops the bandage roll into the first aid box, and latches it shut. Wang buckles his seat belt and stares at the metallic gray wall of Ralph’s modified cargo van until Consuelo’s soul-patched face ruins the view by buckling in across from him. Another belt buckle latches from the front as Shmuel claims shotgun. The van thrums on. Ralph puts it in gear, and they’re off.
“Okay,” says Wang, swaying back and forth with the rhythms of the van. “Our sneak attack has to be timed perfectly. The Temple of Cock Block can’t be penetrated prematurely. We must strike before it’s risen to its full power.”
Christine’s shoulders slump. “So juvenile. Can you please just call it the Weird Pagoda? I’m really uncomfortable every time you say that.”
“Say what?” asks Wang. “Temple?”
“No.”
“Block?”
“No.”
“Of?”
Christine sighs. “It’s times like these I actually miss management in the world of corporate human resources.”
“Weird Pagoda it is, then,” calls Ralph.
“Hey-hey,” says Wang. “Focus on the road, Mad Max. Just because you’re driving doesn’t put you in charge. Got it?”
“I like Weird Pagoda too?” says Shmuel. “It’s weird he built it in Mexico? Only a diagnosable supervillain would do such a thing?”
“I think you mean diabolical,” says Consuelo.
“Oh-ho,” says Wang. “Listen to Shmuel pretending he knows where pagodas come from!”
“I do know?” says Shmuel. “And that’s why I know you can’t build ’em in Mexico?”
“You can build pagodas anywhere,” says Consuelo. “It’s not like China has the licensing rights.”
Shmuel snaps his fingers. “China! See? I know where pagodas come from?”
“Shut up,” says Wang. “All of you. Now. According to Christine’s spies, construction on the Tower of Cock Block—”
“WEIRD PAGODA!” everyone yells in unison.
“—is incomplete. Their defenses will be weak.”
“Come before she’s finished.” Consuelo nods once. “I like it.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” mutters Christine.
“Ralph,” says Wang. “You’re sure Danny and Leo are ready on their end?”
“Ready as any of us are. And if these…animals…are as smart as you say—”
“They’re smart?” says Shmuel. “They’re as smart as me?”
“Whoa-boy,” mutters Ralph. “I sure hope not.”
“And our warehouses are ready?” asks Wang.
“According to Danny
and Leo,” Ralph replies.
“Good.” Wang gives a curt nod. “Because we can’t have the biggest heist of the century and not have any place to stash the loot.”
“Is that what we’re calling this now?” asks Christine. “The biggest heist of the century?”
Wang snaps his fingers and points. “Listen, Cluck-n-Pray, we are about to steal North America’s entire supply of contraceptives. So, yeah. It’s the biggest heist of the century.” He leans his head against the metal interior wall of the cargo van. Pain flares through his whole body, despite him taking enough ibuprofen to resurrect the dead, and he sits upright.
“It’s a stupid thing to call it.” Consuelo glances at Christine and smiles.
Wang scowls. “What would you call it?”
“I don’t know.” Consuelo shrugs. “How about The Great Pull-Out?”
“Oh my God.” Christine raises a hand and shields her eyes. “Both of you! Let’s just get it over with. Take me to the Weird Pagoda so I can surrender to the zombies already.”
“Temple of Cock Block,” says Wang, firmly, because it is a phrase to say firmly. “Operation: Pull-Out.”
“Hey, is anybody going to comment on how this giant phallus is maybe a too-obvious place to store rubbers?” asks Consuelo.
“Whoa,” says Shmuel. “Are we gonna see giant fellas? Like Jack and the Beanstalk?”
Wang slaps his palm into his forehead and receives another painful jolt.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Inside the command center is like an episode from that really old TV show, M.A.S.H. I mean, if M.A.S.H. had been made before the advent of the ham radio. And without the funny guy looking for a Section Eight. Okay, it’s pretty much nothing like M.A.S.H. except for the mobile feel of the place, the soldiers, and the whole barely-controlled-lunacy-meets-military vibe. Which, you know, is always great when there are people carrying rifles, grenades, and rocket launchers.
Mom pulls a soldier aside and whispers into his ear. I catch the words “prime” and “minister.” The soldier nods, then exits the tent. Another soldier enters as the first exits, this one carrying a rattling tray with a teakettle and five cups.
“Sarah,” says Mary. “Do we have time for this? Nostradamus claims he wants us to cut a deal—”
“Of course he does,” Mom replies, her tone strangely unconcerned.
“Mom. We think this is a trap.”
Her mouth twists to the side. “He’s in control. Virtually nothing happens without him knowing, or causing. You say he sent you to me?”
Mary and I exchange uncertain glances and Mom waves it away. “If he sent you to us, then he could’ve invaded any time he wanted. Why didn’t he? What’s he planning? Sweetheart, it doesn’t matter. I’m done worrying about him. It’s exhausting. You and I lost decades because of that man. So, I’m going to take whatever time he gives us today—and it is a gift. I say we sit.” She gestures with her head to a large table at the back. The soldier sets down the tea, and Mom gives him an informal salute. The soldier returns the salute and leaves.
Mom stares at Mary and me in silence, her face a mixture of I-can’t-believe-this-is-really-happening and unspoken apologies. Nostradamus robbed us of a lifetime together. Was it all for naught? If we’ve reached the end, then Mom’s acting awfully fatalistic about it. No more running? No more hiding? What must she be feeling?
I take a centering breath. “I get it now. I get why you had to leave.”
She swallows before replying. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted any of this.”
“Of course not.”
Mom’s gaze drops to her lap. I glance at Mary. She gives me an encouraging nod.
“Your parents are on their way,” says Mom. “I know they’ll be very happy to see you, Mary.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
“Oh.” Mom gives herself a shake and straightens in her seat. “Who wants tea?”
“Um, sure.” I shrug. Mary raises her eyebrows and nods.
Mom pours out the water.
“Mom, I can do that. You don’t have to—”
“It’s pouring hot water. I owe you twenty years. You can let me pour water, okay?”
“You don’t owe me twenty years.”
She sets the piping-hot mugs in front of me and Mary and then goes back for the tea canister. I wait while Mary picks hers first.
“I was angry,” I say. “For a while. Gran helped me there. And then I was sad. Ha. Gran helped me through that also—”
“I’m so thankful for her,” says Mom.
“But I think it wasn’t until I, uh, met Dad. It wasn’t until I met Dad that I knew how much I needed an explanation. It kind of brought me full circle. You know. I needed an explanation when I was little, until Gran helped me kind of accept things. Meeting Dad dredged it up again.”
“There’s so much I want to tell you,” says Mom. “Maybe I should start with I love you.”
I force the lump down in my throat and peer hard into the tea canister. I rifle through the options and the lump grows. Wild Sweet Orange. Mint. Earl Grey…
“I was never too far,” offers Mom. “Always closer than you knew. You were—are—always in my heart. Your father and I will never stop watching over you.”
I nod, understanding the full truth of her sentiment through my superpowers, and a tear falls into the canister. I select the one I bull’s-eyed and tear it open, then dunk it into my mug.
Someone pushes back the tent flap. Prime Minister Watson and the First Lady of Australia.
Chairs scoot back, and the ache in my throat ebbs. Her dad is exactly as I remember. Kind of a mix between Richard Branson and George Clooney. Blue eyes like Mary’s, and blond hair graying at the temples. But her mom’s hair is so blonde, it’s almost white. She’s shorter than Mary’s dad, with a queen’s bearing. Their eyes widen at the sight of Mary, who looks like she’s holding her breath as she gets to her feet. Worry lines wrinkle her forehead. Her mom opens her arms. Mary’s eyebrows rise. Her chin trembles. She takes a tentative step forward.
“It’s okay,” says Mom. “These are your parents. They’re not clones.”
Mary’s mom covers her mouth, and between one moment and the next, her grown daughter is in her arms. Their shoulders shake. Her dad wraps them up from behind in a three-way hug, and tears stream down my cheeks. Mary lets out a mostly squelched sob.
“I was…I was…”
“Shh.” Her father strokes her hair as her mom buries her face in Mary’s neck. Fingers lace between mine—Mom’s—as she comes up beside me. Oh, I’m standing. Not sure when that happened. I bend awkwardly and lay my head on her shoulder. Her other hand comes up to stroke my cheek. We stand there taking in the moment, me spinning on twenty years of wondering about my mom, how Dad missed this reunion by that much, and what it must mean for Mary to get her parents back. After what seems like an eternity, but in a way also not long enough, Mom pulls out of my arms. She gives me an is-it-okay look, and I scrub my cheeks and nod. She pours more hot water. I stand up straighter. Mary and her folks separate. Guess I shouldn’t sit until they do? Jeez, what am I doing? I need to introduce myself. I come around from behind the table, and the prime minister’s gaze finds mine.
“You must be Edger,” he says in a thick Australian accent and holding his hand out for a shake. A small wave of relief courses through me. Last time I met him, met his clone, I mean, this guy was a real dick. I take his heavily callused hand, and it’s a firm grip. His golden wedding band pinches my finger.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” I reply, then sweep my gaze to include his wife. “And you, ma’am.”
“Call me Charlotte,” says Australia’s first lady, and I release the prime minister’s hand to take hers, which feels like Mary’s. She’s got a similar diamond ring too. “Well,” she says, addressing Mary now. “I don’t know how much time we have. But I want you to know your father and I want you to kick that bastard’s ass. Do you hear me?”
Ma
ry straightens. “Yes, Mom.”
“And I don’t mean halfway kick it either.”
“Yes, Mom, I know.”
“We’re talking one hundred percent full-on ass kicking, right?”
“I think she got it,” says her dad.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Charlotte steers Mary by the elbow back to the table. Her dad holds his hand out to gesture me first. We take our seats and pull our mugs in front of us. I lift mine for a sip, mm, Wild Sweet Orange, but it’s still too hot, so I set it back down. Mom releases a rueful chuckle. She’s staring at the tea set and half frowning. She catches us looking at her, and her face breaks into a big smile.
“Probably should’ve told them to bring the Australian gin.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Someone clears their throat—a rebel soldier in military fatigues stands in the doorway.
“Excuse me, Commander.”
Mom rubs her fingertip under her eye before answering. “Yes. Go ahead, Captain.”
Outside, electronic feedback squeals through a speaker, followed by trippy synthesizer music. Sliding pitches rise and fall. Mom hurries around the table.
“What’s going on?”
“Scouts reporting in,” the soldier replies. “Zombies. Inbound from the east. They got past Mufasa.”
“DOMO ARIGATO,” issue the speakers outside the tent.
“Time’s up!” exclaims Mom.
“MR. ROBOTO…”
“Go!” She waves him out the door. “Hold them off as long as you can!”
The soldier unslings his rifle and dashes from the tent. Mom snatches my hand, yanks, and my shoulder twinges as she tows me into action.
“Mary!” she yells. “With me!”
We burst into daylight and a camp teeming with activity. Rebel soldiers in camo fatigues aim their guns at stooped silver-haired grannies dancing the robot near a flagpole with speakers on top.
“Shoot them!” yells Charlotte from behind me. “What’re you waiting for? Shoot them!”
A granny spots me. Bending at the waist, one arm bent ninety degrees and angled up, the other bent ninety degrees and angled down, she waves mechanically.